It’s one of those nights where I know precisely how to torment you without offering even a hint of relief. We’re on the couch together—you, me, and our friend. You’ve had that chastity belt locked on permanently for months now, since last year actually, and I can see it ripping you apart inside every time you realize you’ll never experience release the natural way again. You know this; I’ve reminded you plenty of times. Your days of freedom are done—and that’s exactly what thrills me so much about these moments.
You sit there, unusually quiet, your hands resting on your knees, but I can see the tension in your shoulders and hear the slight tremor in your breath. The permanent tightness of the belt makes you acutely aware of how much you crave relief, how badly you want to beg me for mercy. But you stay silent. You understood long ago that I no longer give you what you desire. Your longing means nothing in this game anymore. I enjoy pushing you right up to this edge—over and over again.
Then I lean close, my breath brushing your ear, and whisper: “Do you want me to go down on you?” But before you can reply, I smile seductively and start showing off—acting as if it’s just a casual offer. “Remember how I used to practice?” I murmur, my voice soft and teasing. “I perfected it over the years with many other men. Everyone who wanted it got what they needed, whenever they wanted it. I was always ready, never refusing. My mouth was always open for them, at all times. No one ever left unsatisfied.” I draw you deeper into these memories: “Remember how you used to say there was nothing better? That I was professional and passionate? Other men couldn’t get enough of me, and they didn’t have to wait. For them, it was about when and how often they wanted it, and I was always there, with abandon, lips ready.” My voice softens almost to a whisper: “I made sure everyone was completely exhausted yet thoroughly satisfied. You know I do this with such dedication… There is no error, no doubt—only perfection. Everyone got exactly what they desired.” I pause, eyes sparkling as I lock onto you with that seductive gaze. The temptation is strong; I can picture in your mind how it used to be, how ready I was for others—but you know that doesn’t apply to you. Your breath catches, muscles tense, but you manage the words: “No… I don’t need this.” Despite what you say, I see the desperation in your eyes and the slight trembling of your body. An amused smile spreads across my lips. I place a hand on your thigh, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric as you try to hold yourself back. But between your legs, the belt presses against your trousers, reminding you that you have no choice. You’ve been locked up for months and it isn’t changing—not in the way you hope.
Then I slowly turn to our friend who has watched silently this whole time. My smile widens as I look him straight in the eye. “If you don’t want it…” I let my words hang, glancing briefly at you just to gauge your reaction. “I’m sure he’s used to getting a blow job whenever he pleases. Unlike you… It’s been ages since I did that for you.” I can feel the tension building inside you, your breathing becoming shallower. The belt holds you tight, keeping you locked in, and you know there’s no escape. You look at me as if trying to maintain control, but I see it boiling within. Part of you wants to stop me, to break the mental chain around you, but you know you can’t halt this game. “Then you’d better take it,” you say, voice nearly hoarse, betraying your frustration.
I laugh softly as I turn to our friend, my hands sliding gently onto his thighs. He watches intently, eyes following every move. I slowly undo his belt and unbutton his trousers while keeping glances at you. I want you to see everything. I want you to feel how excluded you are. You sit right beside him, watching as I pull his pants and underwear down over his hips, gripping him with my hands while the relentless pressure of your own belt keeps you from finding relief. Your breath hitches as I lean forward slowly, letting my tongue glide lightly over the tip of his cock. I notice you unconsciously leaning forward slightly, as if wanting to intervene but unable to. The belt is holding you back, just as I intend. With slow, pleasurable movements, I take him deep into my mouth, my tongue gently playing along his length as I suck rhythmically. Every sound my lips make feels like a slap in your face—the soft smacking echoing through the room drives you mad. You watch as his hands grip my hair while he moans softly. You’re forced to witness every second of it as the belt relentlessly imprisons your arousal. You know there’s no way out for this tension, no release, and that’s what pushes you toward desperation. You want so much for me to do this to you, to pleasure you, but instead, I take him deeper into my mouth, sucking harder until he can barely contain himself with desire. With a deep groan, he finally erupts, and I hold him tightly in my mouth as he comes inside me. It’s a lot—more than expected—and I struggle to swallow it all down. My face stays still, but I feel the fluid running down the corner of my mouth. It drips down my chin, and I pause, eyes wide, swallowing as much as possible while keeping your gaze. A smacking sound fills the room as I pull back, and you see the residue still trailing down my chin. With slow, deliberate movements, I wipe away the excess with my finger, smoothing it over my lips without breaking eye contact once. Then I turn to you, finger glistening, smiling slightly as I hold it out. “Open your mouth,” I command, voice firm and unyielding. Your body trembles with frustration but you obey, opening wide. I slowly insert my finger, gently stroking your tongue and forcing you to accept everything I offer. You close your lips around my finger and I feel you tasting it all, submissively surrendering to the situation. “Good,” I say quietly as I withdraw my finger. “Do what is expected.” You swallow, just as I did a moment ago, staring at me with desperation visible in every muscle of your body. The belt holding you down makes this even more unbearable—but you know there’s no way out.
After it’s all over, you look at me, eyes almost pleading, but say nothing. Instead, you slowly turn to our friend, who is leaning back and processing the events mentally. Your voice is soft and submissive as you speak: “Thank you for letting her do that… she enjoys it so much. I know I won’t get any more of this. My wife is a good housewife, which is why she wants to spoil other men, but not me anymore.” I hear your words and see your shoulders slump slightly, almost relieved that you’ve uttered this humiliating acceptance speech. But I know the pressure inside you continues to grow. The belt cuts into your skin; frustration shows in your eyes, yet you accept your role—and comply. I lean back, brush my lips slowly, eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “That’s what it feels like,” I whisper softly as you still taste me on your tongue and surrender to the dynamic I’ve created.
When I see the look on your face and sense how docile you are in your role, an even better idea strikes me. Without another word, I stand up straight and walk toward the window with deliberate, slow steps. Gripping firmly, I throw it open wide so cool air flows in. The sound of passersby on the street now penetrates clearly into the room. You look at me in confusion, eyes full of uncertainty,
“Come here,” I instruct calmly yet firmly, pointing toward the open window. “Lean out into it. You’ll be very visible to those below.” Your face pales as you grasp what I’m asking, but resistance is futile. With hesitant, trembling hands, you approach the opening. I gently but firmly push your torso forward until you are leaning out over the edge. Below on the street, pedestrians pass by, unaware that while they walk beneath you, I stand behind you. They could easily look up and meet your gaze directly.
Then, without warning, I apply some lube and slide a finger inside you. Your body jerks in surprise, but you grip the windowsill, striving to stay silent. My finger presses deep as you attempt steady breathing, worried someone might glance up and spot you. It feels different from what you expected—not freeing or enjoyable, rather uncomfortable and heavy, heightened by the risk of discovery. I begin massaging your prostate, yet my movements are firm and deliberate, like I am completing a duty without much regard for how it affects you.
“Don’t lean out too far,” I murmur softly, almost teasingly, as I continue. “People might see… perhaps even catch your face when you moan.” You try to focus, tightening your muscles in hopes of easing the sensation or regaining some control. But before that feeling can solidify, my sharp words cut through: “Stop tensing up right now!” My voice is stern and unyielding. “Relax immediately! And keep quiet.” Reluctantly, you release the tension just as I commanded. Ironically, this relaxation makes it worse—the pressure on your prostate feels less comfortable than before. Each moment deepens your sense of helplessness as you ensure no one notices.
“You know, I’m doing this for your own good,” I say in a light, almost caring tone while my fingers keep working. “Other men… they receive blow jobs and much more attention. But with us, we both agree this suits you better, don’t we?” I give your back a brief stroke before continuing. “It’s beneficial for you,” I add gently, soothingly. “It will provide the relief you need. You should be content with it, silly.”
I notice the slight tremor in your breath as you try to accept this reality. “Other men get more… But what we have is just right for you. You’re happy with that, aren’t you?” To you, the massage feels increasingly like a punishment. Each press becomes harder and deeper; instead of bringing relief, it tightens its hold on your control. You feel no desire or pleasure—only an unpleasant tugging sensation and a strong urge for it to end. Yet I do not stop pushing.
After several minutes, you realize how the climax simply happens. Without warning, everything empties out—you derive no pleasure or relief from it. Your body is forced to release itself, and in that instant, you let out an uncontrolled, muffled grunt. You try desperately to stifle it, but it’s too late. Embarrassment floods your face as startled passers-by below look up toward the window. It isn’t what you wanted; instead of liberation, there is only humiliation.
You see the large puddle forming beneath you, and frustration grows as you remain leaned out, desperate to avoid further attention. I withdraw my fingers and cast a sharp glance at the mess left behind. “What a mess you’ve made!” I scold sternly. “Clean that up immediately.” Slowly, hands still trembling, you straighten away from the window and begin wiping the puddle while I watch you closely with piercing eyes. A mocking smile touches my lips as I shake my head slightly.
“So quick,” I say quietly, continuing to shake my head. “You truly are a little piglet, aren’t you?”
Your face flushes deeper with humiliation, but barely past your lips comes the reply: “Yes… I am a piglet.”